


The Story of Hang Jebat

by writers_haven



Series: Jearmin Week Summer 2015 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Rated T for language, hang jebat!Jean, hang tuah au, hang tuah!Marco, i can't believe i just typed that, they are all turning in their graves, this is basically a self-indulgent malaysian having fun, tun perak!Armin, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writers_haven/pseuds/writers_haven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Malaccan air is different, huh?” Marco chuckled from beside Jean, a hand resting naturally on his keris. “Though, I always say that, and you always say–”</p><p>“I know what you mean,” Jean interrupted, scratching at his new beard. He kept his eyes glued to the horizon, refusing to meet Marco’s incredulous gaze.</p><p>Marco huffed a laugh. “You used to always say that I was a sentimental fool, and that air was the same everywhere,” he retorted, nudging Jean playfully. “What, suddenly feeling homesick? Missing Malacca?”</p><p>“Who would,” Jean grumbled.</p><p>Marco just grinned. “Missing someone, then,” he declared, clapping a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Jean. Thought you’d never find someone to settle down with.”</p><p>or</p><p>the Hang Tuah AU nobody knew they wanted</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2: Mythology
> 
> This is based loosely on _Hikayat Hang Tuah_ , a famous piece of Malay literature. Hang Tuah is a legendary warrior in 15th century Malacca, and is still regarded one of the greatest heroes in history and literature. 
> 
> Yes, I'm calling this mythology, because nobody really knows if Hang Tuah was real, and even if he was, all the stuff he did in stories definitely isn't.
> 
> (See the next chapter for a glossary and a brief explanation of the story.)

Jean took a deep breath of the salty sea-breeze, unable to stop the smile on his face as Malacca’s busy port came into view. As thrilling it was to get out and help Laksamana Marco deal with some pirates, there really was no place like home.

“Malaccan air is different, huh?” Marco chuckled from beside him, a hand resting naturally on his keris. “Though, I always say that, and you always say–”

“I know what you mean,” Jean interrupted, scratching at his new beard. He kept his eyes glued to the horizon, refusing to meet Marco’s incredulous gaze.

Marco huffed a laugh. “You _used_ to always say that I was a sentimental fool, and that air was the same everywhere,” he retorted, nudging Jean playfully. “What, suddenly feeling homesick? Missing Malacca?”

“Who would,” Jean grumbled.

Marco just grinned. “Missing someone, then,” he declared, clapping a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Jean. Thought you’d never find someone to settle down with.”

Jean rolled his eyes. _Like we could ever_ _settle down_ , he thought, but didn’t say. It was for the Sultan to decide, after all, and nobody could make the man do anything he didn’t want to. No point griping about something he had no power to change.

“What about you?” Jean challenged Marco instead. “The only thing I see you settling down with is your keris. You know your enemies are calling it Taming Sari, the flower shield? They’re saying that’s the reason why they keep losing to you; it makes you _invulnerable_.”

Marco shook his head, chuckling. “Should’ve told me that, I’ve been wasting energy dodging.”

“Apparently that’s also why you refuse to get a new keris,” Jean added. “Little do they know, you’re just a sentimental fool who can’t bear to part with his first real weapon.”

“Says the sentimental fool who can’t bear a few weeks away from his sweetheart,” Marco retorted.

“At least my sweetheart’s a person, not a knife,” Jean sneered back.

“Joke’s on you,” Marco sniffed haughtily. “I’m always with my sweetheart; I never get homesick for her.”

Jean… had no reply to that. He scowled and shoved Marco with his shoulder, grumbling when Marco just laughed.

\--

Armin was waiting for them at the docks, looking just as excited as Jean felt and a lot more endearing. “Welcome home,” he said rather formally as Jean (quickly) descended from the ship, though his blinding grin gave away his delight. “Everything went well?”

“Pirates were dealt with,” Jean said coolly, trying to suppress his own grin and the warmth that bubbled up in his heart. “No big deal, all in a day’s work.”

“I thought it was _my_ job to give the reports to the bendahara?” Marco teased, laughing. “He’s right, though, all standard procedure. Everything alright on this end?”

“Just the usual,” Armin said, turning a less giddy smile on Marco as the three of them started making their way back to the palace. “Mikasa was sent out to collect some taxes, conquered a country instead.”

“The usual,” Jean agreed.

“Eren and Ymir have been teaching silat to some of the nobles; the princess even requested Ymir give her private lessons.”

“Not a bad idea,” Marco mused. “Nobles or not, self-defence is always an important skill. Especially for the princess, should she ever meet some trouble outside Malacca.”

“Are you taking silat classes, Armin?” Jean asked.

“Oh, no, if I’m going to learn, it’s going to be from the best,” Armin replied, eyes twinkling. Jean’s chest puffed up with pride. He was one of the best silat practitioners in the peninsula– it was one of the main reasons he’d gotten his position in court.

“That’s why I was waiting for Marco to get back,” Armin finished, winking at Marco, who burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Jean glared at them both, pouting.

“You are a terrible person and I hate you,” Jean grumbled.

“I know,” Armin chirped back gleefully. His grin was so huge and happy Jean had no choice but to grin back and try to get a handle on the swarm of butterflies in his stomach at the sight of it.

It was good to be home.

\--

Later that night, when they were in Jean’s quarters and free to be themselves, Armin decided that asking, “What is that on your face?” was more important than letting Jean kiss him for the first time in _weeks_.

Jean raised an eyebrow at him, because really, _that’s_ what Armin wanted to talk about right now? “It’s a beard,” he said, like it was obvious, because _it_ _was_. “When a man doesn’t shave–”

“Yes, thank you, I know what a beard is,” Armin interrupted, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. “What I mean is, why do you _have_ one? Even if you didn’t have access to a razor at sea, you’ve had the past six hours to get rid of that scraggly mess.”

“I’m growing it out!” Jean said indignantly. “I like it, it makes me look manly.”

“It makes you look forty,” Armin argued. “And it’s going to give me beard-burn, and then the sultan is going to figure out I’m not straight.”

Jean wrapped his arms around Armin’s waist and pulled him close. “Tell him your girlfriend is exceptionally hairy,” he suggested, mouthing hot kisses on Armin’s neck. “I’ll back you up, don’t worry.”

“Please shave,” Armin grumbled, but made no move to pull away. Clearly, Armin had missed this as much as Jean had. Smiling to himself, Jean went for the spot just under Armin’s jaw that always drove him crazy, sucking gently so as not to leave a mark. He was rewarded with a quiet whine and fingers in his hair. Jean smiled, kissing his way up to Armin’s ear and licking the shell. Success.

“I can think of a better way to spend the night than arguing about my beard,” Jean whispered, low and husky in Armin’s ear, just the way he knew Armin liked.

“You are a terrible person and I hate you,” Armin groaned, giving in.

“I know,” Jean replied smugly, and (finally, _finally_ ) kissed Armin on the mouth.

\--

Jean remembered the day he met Armin like it was yesterday. Armin had already been acting as bendahara, even all those years ago– his grandfather, who he’d inherited the position from, had been ill and would pass away only a few months later. He, along with a number of guards, had come to Jean’s hometown upon hearing of two men who’d gone into amok– a sort of violent killing frenzy due to possession by an evil spirit.

Usually, the whole thing was pretty straightforward. While in amok, men were twice as vicious, but also twice as reckless– it should have been simple for trained soldiers to take them down. Unfortunately, these particular men had been the town weaponsmiths. As such, they were extremely skilled with a keris, and also strong as elephants, the combination of which sent half the guards running terrified and the other half dead on the floor.

Jean hadn’t known a thing about these men, as he, along with Marco, Eren, Mikasa and Ymir, had been up in the mountains all week with their guru, training in silat. The five of them had been coming down to the town for the weekend off, complaining, as students always do, about their teacher (who lived _on a mountain_ , seriously) and boring meditation exercises. As luck would have it, they happened upon these two men finishing off the last of the guards and turning on Armin himself.

Eren, of course, was the first to move, but the rest of them were quick to follow. Jean didn’t recall the fight all too well, but between the five of them, they managed to knock the two men out and haul them off to the bomoh for cleansing. Armin had been so thankful and impressed that he offered them positions in court on the spot, and the rest was history.

\--

“Slept well?” Eren sneered at him when he arrived for morning silat, more out of habit than any real malice. Eren and Armin had become best friends over the years, and even though everyone knew Armin could take care of himself, it was easy to forget when he had such a baby face. Jean could understand Eren’s occasional protectiveness.

“I had a fantastic night, thanks,” Jean sniffed coolly, starting on some warmups. “Armin says hi.” He could almost feel Eren rolling his eyes at Mikasa, mouthing, _What a dick._

“He’s okay with the swamp growing on your face?” Eren taunted.

Jean scoffed. “What does that even _mean_?”

“Means your face is like a bog with how clogged your pores are.”

“For your information, _asshole_ , I exfoliate _every_ _week_ –”

“Boys,” Marco warned, voice sharp. His keris, Taming Sari, was already drawn, moving fluidly with Marco as he went through his stances. As usual, Marco wouldn’t tolerate anything besides total concentration while they were on duty. Jean supposed that was why he’d been promoted instead of any of the others. “Where’s Ymir?”

As if on cue, Ymir came sauntering into the courtyard, clothes a little rumpled but otherwise showing no sign that she knew (or cared) that she was late. “This is a pain,” she drawled, though she, too, started stretching as she joined them. “Sleeping in once in a while won’t kill us.”

“If you want to get rusty, be my guest,” said Marco pleasantly. “Don’t blame us when you get fired.”

Ymir grumbled, but didn’t argue any further. Jean, not for the first time, marvelled at Marco’s ability to be kind of ruthless despite being the nicest person Jean had ever met.

\--

“Jean,” Armin called from the door.

Jean looked up from polishing his weapons with a grin. “Hey, what’s up?” he called back lightly, throwing Armin a saucy wink. Nobody else was in the room, so Jean was free to flirt as much as he liked.

Armin came closer, looking upset. “The sultan wants to see you,” he said lowly, voice serious. “He’s _furious_ , Jean, what did you do?”

Jean felt dread building in his stomach. The sultan was notorious for being irrational when angry. “I haven’t done anything,” he hissed desperately, sheathing his keris and tucking it in his sampin as he stood up.

“Maybe he’s going to give you an assignment?” Armin suggested, poker face on now that they were walking in the corridors in full view of everyone else. “Something dangerous that’s been, I don’t know, ravaging some part of the kingdom?”

“Without Marco?” Jean challenged. “Or Mikasa, or Ymir, or Eren? I’m good, but Mikasa is better for a solo mission.”

Armin sighed, dark and worried. “So what do you think it is, then?”

_Maybe he found out that I’m fucking his bendahara and wants to cut my head off,_ Jean thought. “We’ll find out,” he said instead, because the thought had probably occurred to Armin ages ago.

“Everything will be okay,” Armin said, firm and determined.

Jean wasn’t sure about that, but he agreed anyway.

\--

“Historia was not only late for breakfast, but has been _glowing_ with joy all morning,” the sultan hissed at Jean, like he was angry with his daughter’s happiness. “What do you have to say about that?!”

Jean was feeling extremely confused. “Perhaps she had a good dream, sir,” he suggested, trying not to sound sarcastic.

“You seduced my daughter last night, you filty dog!” the sultan spat, his round face red with fury. “You lured her in and took her virginity! Do you deny it?!”

Jean was, frankly, bewildered. “Yes, sir, wholeheartedly,” he replied, pretending he wasn’t offended. It was difficult when Jean had never so much as thought about the princess as anything other than a figure to protect and respect. “I was with Bendahara Armin until late last night going over the details of my most recent assignment.”

“Sir, I can vouch for that,” Armin chipped in, bowing as he moved to Jean’s side. “Laksamana Marco wasn’t feeling well, so he had Jean present the report to me.”

The sultan narrowed his eyes. “And yet, you were seen entering your chambers with Historia,” he said, suspicious. “If you are both lying to me…”

When had he ever gone anywhere with the princess?! Jean opened his mouth to say so, but Armin cut him off.

“Sir,” he said, sounding strange, “did your informant see the princess’ face?”

“You doubt my words?!” the sultan roared.

Armin was unfazed. “No, sir, I doubt that of your informant,” he said coolly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. “The princess and I are of similar hair colour and build. I believe I was mistaken for Princess Historia when I entered Jean’s chambers to discuss Laksamana Marco’s report.”

There was a short silence as the sultan considered this, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“I would trust Bendahara Armin with my life,” the sultan said finally, giving Jean the stink-eye. “It is his word that saved your hide this time, boy.” Jean resented being called _boy_ at his age, truly, but self-preservation won out over pride.

“Thank you, sir,” he said instead, bowing low.

“Dismissed,” said the sultan, waving his hand. Jean bowed yet again (he’d learnt it was better to lay it on thick with this guy) and turned to leave as Armin quietly moved back to his position next to the throne.

“Wait,” the sultan called suddenly, when Jean was halfway across the room. Jean turned back to face him. “Yes, my lord?” he asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

The sultan considered him for a moment. “You and Laksamana Marco are close, yes?” he asked, voice strange.

“Yes, sir,” Jean replied, not sure where this was going. He resisted the urge to glance at Armin.

“Laksamana Marco seemed well enough to help some of the nobles with their silat yesterday, but felt too ill to present a mere report to Bendahara Armin?”

“We believe it was food poisoning, sir– he only started complaining after dinner.” A lie, but a lie founded in truth. Ymir had been the one to suffer it, not Marco.

The sultan only seemed more angry at that. “What a coincidence,” he said darkly. “So did Historia.”

Horror sank in Jean’s belly like a stone. “S-Sir, you don’t mean–”

“You are dismissed,” the sultan interrupted. “Go and summon Marco here, I wish to speak with him.”

“But sir–!”

“You dare defy your sultan?”

Jean fell silent. There was no way he was going to let Marco die for a lie Jean told, but speaking out against the sultan was akin to suicide. He looked to Armin for guidance.

_Everything will be okay,_ Armin’s firm, confident gaze told him. _Trust me._

Jean gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the throne room.

\--

“I’m so sorry, Marco,” Jean couldn’t stop saying. “I just– I didn’t know the princess had also–”

“It’s okay, Jean,” Marco interrupted, grasping Jean’s shoulders like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You’d be dead by now if you hadn’t lied. I understand why you did it, and I’m not angry.”

“Still–”

“It’ll be okay, Jean,” Marco said, smiling. “The sultan likes me, he’ll listen to what I have to say.”

“If you say so,” said Jean, and watched worriedly as he left.

\--

Jean immediately went for the three people he knew he could trust.

“What’s this about, horseface, you’re making us miss lunch,” Eren complained, but his eyes were serious. No matter what rivalry existed between them, Jean knew Eren had his back. Mikasa and Ymir, too, despite their silence. They were more than his friends– they were family.

Jean took a deep breath, and told them everything.

“You really think the sultan will kill Marco?” Eren hissed, running a hand over his face. “He wouldn’t, would he?”

“I don’t know,” Jean snapped.

“What do you want to do?” Mikasa asked quietly. “We’ll support you.”

Eren nodded; Ymir, silent, just crossed her arms and looked at him, which Jean took for agreement.

Jean took a deep breath, and cleared his head. He needed to be rational about what he did next.

“Let’s wait and see,” he decided finally. “If he kills Marco, his most loyal officer… we rebel.”

\--

Jean saw neither Marco nor Armin for the rest of the day, and strangely, no gossip about Marco had spread through the palace; the sultan must have kept it well under wraps. It was only early the next morning that Armin slipped into Jean’s room, footsteps light.

“Jean,” he whispered, and Jean, who’d barely slept in worry, immediately sat up.

Armin’s face was grim. “Marco’s been sentenced to death.”

Jean felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “What?” he breathed, unable to believe his ears.

Armin shook his head. His eyes were tired, like he hadn’t slept all night either. “We tried, but the sultan just wouldn’t listen,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s not much time, I’ll explain when I get back–”

“What? Where are you going?” Jean asked, frowning.

“I bargained to execute him some distance from the palace–”

The sound of a cockerel’s crow burst in through the window, startling them both and cutting Armin off. Armin pressed a kiss to Jean’s cheek hastily, saying, “It’ll be okay, don’t worry, I’ll be back soon,” before hurrying out the door and shutting it quietly behind him.

Jean was left staring at the door in shock. Marco, who’d been dreaming of working for the sultan since he was a kid, who worked harder than anyone, who always, always believed in his sultan, no matter what.

The sultan had repaid Marco’s loyalty with a death sentence.

Jean got out of bed immediately. It was time to plan a rebellion.

\--

First things first, Jean immediately spread word of Marco’s execution– without a trial, either. Almost everyone in court, noble or servant, had liked Marco, and everyone knew the extent of his loyalty. If the sultan could order the death of Laksamana Marco, of all people, nobody was safe from his wrath.

Jean let the rumour fester in court for half a day before he, Eren and Mikasa went about garnering support for the rebellion.

Ymir, surprisingly upon her own suggestion, had taken the princess out of harm’s way and into hiding in the nearby town, under the guise of the princess taking a trip to Siam and bringing Ymir along as a guard. It was a good idea; someone had to succeed the throne, and who better than good, kind Princess Historia? With how terribly her father had treated her, she probably wouldn’t even be too upset about her father being overthrown. Ymir wouldn’t come back until she saw thick white smoke from the palace– that was the sign that the sultan had been successfully dethroned.

Jean had initially been a little concerned that they were down another brilliant warrior with Ymir away, but Mikasa was practically a small army by herself, and Eren, despite his inability to think before acting, was a beast on the battlefield. The three of them, combined with the support of even half the court, would have a good chance of success. Malacca and her sultan had been on the top for too long. Apart from Marco and Armin, all the senior positions were held by old men; the guards were no longer the best warriors the kingdom could produce, but the ones who were deemed not good enough to fight as soldiers. It wouldn’t be hard to get through them to the sultan.

The only problem would be sheer numbers, which was why he’d sent Eren to speak to the guards. Eren was somehow extremely good at rallying troops; on the battlefield, he was always the one to keep morale up. On the other hand, Mikasa inspired confidence simply through her incredible skill and fearsome reputation, so Jean sent her to speak to nobles. They wanted to back the winning side, after all, and Mikasa’s strength tipped the scales in their favour.

Jean himself went about speaking to servants. Before he and Armin had gotten involved, Jean had been, ah, intimate with a good number of them. The servants saw him as a person, a friend asking a favour instead of a general leading an army, or a politician asking for support. Jean would never underestimate the power of having servants on his side; not only did they run the palace behind the scenes, they also had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I’m sure Armin has a plan,” Eren said lowly when they reconvened at dinner. “There’s no way he’d just let the execution go through.”

“Does it matter?” Jean questioned. “Whether or not Marco lives, the sultan was ready to kill him. This isn’t about avenging our friend – it’s about standing up to a tyrant.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to wait for Armin to get back before we do this?” Eren asked. “He’ll only be gone for a week, two if he’s stalling for time.”

“If we want this rebellion to succeed, we have to take away the sultan’s power,” Jean explained. “A sultan is a tree, but his subjects are the roots; without us, he is nothing. Armin is one of the most powerful pieces he has in his control. Same goes for the five of us. With Marco dead, Ymir away from the country and us three leading the rebellion, the sultan will panic.”

“Damage the roots, and fell the tree,” Eren summarised, sounding a little awed.

“He still has supporters in the palace,” Mikasa pointed out. “We haven’t exactly been discreet. He will hear about this soon, if he hasn’t already.”

Jean smirked. “Good.”

\--

It took two days for word to reach the sultan, which was actually two days more than Jean had expected. Nothing much had happened in the palace at all for those two days. The Penghulu Bendahari had taken a leave of absence to visit his sick mother– which Jean wasn’t too worried about because the Penghulu Bendahari was a scrawny man who nobody even pretended to like, most of the time– but otherwise the palace was too busy whispering about the upcoming rebellion.

Early on the second day, all three of them– Jean, Eren and Mikasa– were dragged into the throne room for an audience with an apoplectic sultan.

Which, of course, was the signal for the beginning of the revolution.

Jean wasn’t a big damn hero like Eren was, or driven by pure ideals like Marco. He was just an ordinary man, and so he made it extremely easy for ordinary people to aid the rebellion. Participation was welcome, but not necessary; all they had to do was not fight back and get out of the way. The only exception was the guards at the gates, where Jean had given orders not to let anyone in or out, and even that was a simple matter of keeping the gates closed.

The sultan was almost purple with rage, and started yelling the moment they came into view. “You come into _my_ palace and start a rebellion against _I_ , the _sultan_? After all I have done for you? You wouldn’t even _be_ here if it wasn’t for me! I take you in from the squalor of your puny village, give you positions in my court, and this is how you repay me?! How dare y–”

He was cut off by the dull thunk of Mikasa’s knife lodging itself in the back of his throne, missing his head by only a hair. His resulting shriek, while shrill and ear-piercing, was extremely satisfying.

“Nice,” said Eren, looking impressed. Jean agreed.

“Y-You traitors!” the sultan squeaked, actually trembling with fear. “Wh-What do you think you’re d-d-doing?!”

A terrifying grin spread across Jean’s face as he sauntered up to the throne, drawing his keris from its sheath slowly. “Betraying the sultan,” he replied smoothly, and slammed the hilt into the sultan’s head.

\--

After that, everything went swimmingly. Their reputation as fierce warriors served them well, especially since Mikasa had taken point. The sultan, his officials, and anyone else in the palace loyal to him were thrown into the dungeons within a couple of days, after which Jean set the smoke signal to give Ymir the all-clear. Once both the princess and Armin were back, they’d have a proper coronation.

All that was left to do was wait.

\--

He didn’t have to wait long. The next evening, Ymir came striding up to Jean just as he was leaving his chambers to go to dinner.

“Oh, Ymir,” he greeted cheerfully, tucking his keris into the back of his sampin. “Welcome ba–”

“Marco is dead,” Ymir cut him off, face serious.

Jean’s good mood fell to the floor and shattered. “What?” he demanded. “Are you sure?”

“Saw him being buried with my own eyes,” she said darkly, eyes furious like he had never seen before. “On the edge of the fucking _forest_ , like he was a _wild dog_ they accidentally killed! At least they had the decency to put him in a damn shroud.”

Jean was already shaking his head. “You must have been mistaken,” the words were shaky, but Jean couldn’t just accept this, there was no way, “Armin was there, he had a plan, he–”

“Armin was standing there, _crying_ ,” Ymir interjected fiercely, and Jean fell silent. He had never, ever seen Armin cry before, not even _once_ , not even on that first day when he was nearly killed by crazy amok-driven men. “That bastard Penghulu Bendahari was there too; he must have fucked up Armin’s plans.”

Visiting his sick mother, Jean’s _ass_! Distantly, Jean registered hard wood against his back. Shock spread through his body, leaving him feeling numb. Marco, who’d been his best friend since the day he was born– Marco couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. Armin was a _genius_. There was no way.  

“Here,” said Ymir softly, pulling a sheathed keris from the back of her sarong– but it wasn’t hers. “I stole it when they weren’t looking.”

It was Taming Sari. Marco’s favourite keris, the one he never went anywhere without. There was no way he would let anyone take it away from him if he was alive. No way in hell.

Marco was dead.

And it was all Jean’s fault. If Jean hadn’t stirred up the court with his rebellion, maybe the Penghulu Bendahari wouldn’t have been sent after Armin. If Jean hadn’t told that stupid lie in court, Marco would never have been accused. If Jean had been just a little more patient that night, a little more careful about who saw them…

Jean slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands.

Marco was dead.

It was as if he wasn’t in control of his own body. He felt like a spectator, just watching as his body lunged up from the floor, grabbed Taming Sari from Ymir and started sprinting down the halls. There was a loud, grief-stricken roar in his ears, like someone was screaming just the way Jean felt. Everything was blurry with tears, or with the speed of his sprint, or with the haze he seemed to be in– Jean didn’t know. Jean felt– angry, devastated, miserable– _guilty_ – and the roar– _his_ roar, he realised suddenly– grew louder and louder, rougher and hoarser and burning his throat–

Suddenly, he was kneeling right in front of the sultan’s cell, his fingers curled in the bastard’s yellow shirt, slamming his fucking face into the bars. The sound of steel against flesh was satisfying, but it wasn’t enough. Not _nearly_. This motherfucker would _pay_ for what he’d done.

“Open it,” Jean heard himself snarl.

The guard looked panicked. “B-But–”

“Open it!” Jean barked again, and the guard quickly fumbled for his keys.

“W-Wait, no!” the coward before him whimpered. “Please, no! I-I’ll do anything! I’ll s-step down voluntarily! Just d-don’t–”

The gate creaked open and Jean was in there in a flash, punching the words right out of his mouth. Again, and again, and again, his fist connected with the bastard’s face, over and over until his knuckles were raw and bloody, and even then he couldn’t stop, not until revenge had been served, not until this piece of shit got what he deserved.

And then, before Jean even knew what he was doing, he’d drawn Taming Sari and plunged it into the fucker’s heart.

“Jean!” someone screamed from somewhere behind him, and suddenly Jean was aware of the screams and shrieks and sobs of the other prisoners, echoing in the dungeon. Footsteps, barely heard over the racket, came running towards him– and then there were shaky hands pulling him away, prying his fingers off Taming Sari, tugging at his face.

“Jean, oh god, Jean,” Armin was gasping, pulling Jean’s head under his chin, fingers trembling in Jean’s hair.

“Jean,” came another voice, disbelieving and shocked and sounding like–

Jean immediately tore out of Armin’s grip, whipping around with something like hope pounding in his chest–

Marco was kneeling there, breathing and whole and alive, holding the sultan in his arms, staring at Jean like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What have you done?” he breathed, sounding _betrayed_.

Jean’s gaze moved from Marco’s (breathing, _alive_ ) face to Taming Sari buried in the sultan’s chest.

Jean had killed the sultan.

He was out the door and running by the time he even heard Armin shout after him.

\--

Jean’s legs finally gave out somewhere in the courtyard, forcing him to slump into a kneel against the cold stone floor. Even with the many lanterns all around, Jean was shivering.

He’d killed the sultan.

Jean had killed people before, but never, never had he killed someone who was unable to fight back. He’d been so angry, and miserable, and hurting, and he’d just– just wanted justice for his friend.

_What have you done?_ Marco had said, looking at Jean like he was a– a _murderer_.

Jean was a _murderer_.

“Jean,” came Armin’s voice, small and careful and worried.

“Go away,” Jean rasped out, refusing to look at him. How could he, after what he’d done? The sultan had been a blood relation of Armin’s, no matter how distant. They’d been family, and Jean had– had _killed_ him.

Armin, stubborn bastard, came close instead, carefully brushed Jean’s hair out of his face, rubbed soothing circles on his back.

The words came, unbidden. “I killed him,” Jean whispered, broken and horrified. “I thought– Marco–”

He couldn’t say anymore– it was all stuck in his throat– but Armin seemed to understand anyway. He took Jean’s hand in his, pressed a gentle kiss to his fingers– the fingers that had just _killed_ a helpless man– before speaking, low and soothing.

“When the Penghulu Bendahari showed up, I had to improvise. He’s squeamish about blood, so while he waited some distance away, I had my men pretend to kill Marco. Then, under the guise of washing the body, I made up a human shape out of anything I could find in the forest– branches, dirt, rocks– and wrapped it in the shroud. The Bendahari never touched the body; my men were the ones who threw the dummy into the pit.”

“Ymir saw you cry,” Jean said softly, voice still hoarse from screaming.

“I’m a good actor,” Armin told him with a weak smile. “Did she steal Taming Sari? I tried to convince the Bendahari to leave it as a grave marker, but he seemed to think it was a mystical keris that granted its user physical invulnerability.”

Jean snorted. Of course.

“Marco will come here eventually,” Armin said quietly, nuzzling Jean’s jaw comfortingly, not even minding the beard. “He’s bringing the- the body to the mosque first.”

Jean tensed up. Marco. That look of betrayal on his face… Marco was always absurdly loyal to the sultan, always thought he could do no wrong. Jean had killed Marco’s idol, Marco’s purpose. Did Marco hate him now? Jean wouldn’t blame him if he did.

“He was still, technically, the reigning monarch when you killed him, since the Princess hadn’t assumed the throne yet,” Armin began softly. “By law, you’d have to be executed for regicide.”

Jean took a deep breath, and cleared his mind as best he could. As much as he regretted killing the sultan, he didn’t want to be executed over it. “You have a plan?” he asked, and was not at all surprised when Armin nodded.

\--

The first thing Marco noticed was the _smell_. It was like– roasting meat, like beef over a fire. And then he noticed the smoke coming from the courtyard, and rushed over in a panic.

He was expecting a toppled lantern, a spreading fire that needed to be stopped. He did not expect to find Armin, sitting in front of an oddly-shaped patch of fire, the shattered remains of one of the oil lanterns lying on the ground in front of him.

“Armin, get away!” he cried, and went to drag Armin away, but Armin just screamed and wrenched his hand out of Marco’s grip. The smaller man was crying, Marco realised suddenly, sobbing and heaving and wailing in anguish.

“What happened?” Marco asked, trying to be firm yet kind. “I thought you were chasing Jean?”

That only made Armin wail even louder, and stare at his shaking hands in something like horror.

Marco decided he wasn’t getting anything out of Armin for now, so he turned his attention to the rest of the scene.

How had that fire started? Marco squinted at it, then frowned. There, right in the fire, that shirt, that sampin, Marco had seen them before. They looked like –

Jean’s clothes.

With a flash of horror, Marco’s mind connected the dots. The smell of roasting meat. The vaguely humanoid shape of the fire. Jean’s clothes. Armin, bawling his eyes out, inconsolable.

Marco wanted to throw up.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice shaky and shrill and desperate. “Armin, please, tell me that isn’t– tell me you didn’t–!”

“I- I- I didn’t mean to!” Armin sobbed. “One moment we were just talking, e-everything was f-fine, and then s-suddenly, he just– h-he was in a f-frenzy or something, he- he lunged at me, I didn’t know what to do, I just- I grabbed the n-nearest object and…!” he trailed off into broken sobs, but Marco had heard enough.

_Jean,_ he thought, falling to his knees before his best friend’s flaming corpse, feeling numb. _I’m so sorry._

\--

The rebellion came to a close with Jean’s death.

Laksamana Marco took the credit for killing the sultan’s murderer, so Armin wouldn’t have to. He was then reinstated and formally apologised to by the new Sultana for her father’s actions.

Sultana Historia was crowned only a few days after the rebellion. Immediately after the coronation, Bendahara Armin, one of the greatest bendaharas in the history of the Malaccan Sultanate, resigned and disappeared to a countryside home.

Court would never hear from him again.

\--

…

…

…

“Seriously, why do I have to shave?!”

“You’re supposed to be dead! If anyone recognises you–”

“All the more reason to actually grow out my beard! I was clean-shaven for a long time, okay, and people remember me that way!”

“Yes, but you had a beard –or the beginnings of one– when you decided to _lead a rebellion_ , so all the reports are going to call you a bearded lunatic.”

“There are plenty of bearded lunatics in the countryside. I’ll blend right in.”

“Please just shave?”

“Why?!”

“It’s for your own _safety_ , come on!”

“You just have something against the beard.”

“…It’s itchy, and it’s giving me a rash. Please?”

A sigh. “…Fine, I’ll shave.”

“Yes! Thank you~”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

A laugh. “I love you.”

“…Love you too.”


	2. Glossary + some explanations

**Notes on the source** **material:**

_Hikayat Hang Tuah,_ a (badly-told) summary:

Laksamana Hang Tuah was accused of sleeping with one of the Sultan's female servants and was sentenced to death without a trial. Hang Jebat, Hang Tuah's BFFL, was so enraged that his friend had been unjustly punished and went cray (I suspect it was amok) killing everyone with his BFF's keris (Taming Sari) and basically raising shit. The Sultan then realised what a Horrible Mistake he'd made, killing the only man who was better at silat than Hang Jebat. Thankfully, the bendahara had saved Hang Tuah, and he was quickly reinstated to defeat his BFFL, which Hang Tuah was determined to do because he was apparently more loyal to his sovereign than his best friend. After seven days of fighting, Hang Tuah managed to wrestle Taming Sari away from Hang Jebat and stabbed him. Wow, Hang Tuah. Dick move.

Basically this raised debate among Malay literature experts on the themes of loyalty (represented by Hang Tuah aka Marco) versus justice (represented by Hang Jebat aka Jean). In my opinion, I think it's very scary that this piece of literature was and remains one of the most famous ones, because it shows that the Sultan has absolute power, and anyone who dares rise against him will be struck down, possibly by their best friend. Intimidating shit.

 

Tun Perak, on whom Armin's character is based, was a historical figure, and was advisor to the Malaccan Sultan for four generations. He was one of the reasons the Malaccan Sultanate did so well, because he was one smart mofo. One of his plans included spreading his army along the mangroves on the river mouth and lighting tons of torches to make it seem like their army was huge as heck. The enemy took one look, pissed themselves, and ran home crying. In my opinion he put up with a lot of shit from the Sultans that he didn't have to; once, his son was killed by the Sultan's son, and all he said was "just please don't let him become Sultan" and the Sultan just shipped his son off to another state. (I would've whooped my son's ass and thrown him in jail if that happened, geez.)

 

Hang Tuah's squad also consisted of Hang Lekiu, Hang Lekir and Hang Kasturi in addition to best bro Hang Jebat. Those three were represented by Eren, Mikasa and Ymir. 

 

**Glossary:**

**Laksamana:** the official in charge of the sea security of the Malaccan Sultanate, who was also in full command of the Malaccan fleet, outranked only by the Bendahara and the Sultan

 **Bendahara:** an official acting as the Sultan’s advisor and right hand man, second-in-command of the Sultanate. Was usually of the same lineage as the Sultan. A hereditary post.

 **Penghulu Bendahari:** essentially the minister of finance in the Malaccan Sultanate. Was also in charge of registering the number of slaves in service and arranging in-house matters of the palace.

 **Keris:** a dagger with a wavy blade, shown below:

**Taming Sari:** the famous keris of Laksamana Hang Tuah, the classic Malay hero

 **Silat:** a form of traditional Malay martial arts

 **“The peninsula”:** refers to the Malay peninsula, which is now west Malaysia

 **Amok:** a condition where men suddenly went into a frenzy of violence, supposedly due to possession. After the fact, it has been theorised that this condition, as it often ended in the man’s death, was a result of suicide being forbidden in Islam

 **Guru:** silat master

 **Bomoh:** a shaman

 

 

**Clothing:**

This is baju melayu, which is what the men are wearing. There's a top and a bottom (they're not connected, no matter what they look like), and the cloth skirt thing is called a  **sampin** _._ In this fic, they tuck their keris in the back of the sampin, but they used to tuck it in the front, too.

This is what the ladies are wearing, called baju kebaya. The skirt is called a  **sarong** , in which Mikasa and Ymir tuck their kerises. I chose the kebaya top because it's prettier and would make it easier for them to retrieve their weapons.

**Author's Note:**

> What did I do, omg. If you're Malaysian, you're welcome. I laughed a lot when coming up with this concept, and then cried and screamed when I was writing it.
> 
> Also this started out as cute boyfriends being cute, and quickly became "how to stage a rebellion when you and your squad are _badass motherfuckers_ ". I regret this less than I thought I would.
> 
> Also posted on my tumblr!


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